


Triage

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Tragedy, this is not a happy story people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been surprised when the teeth had sunk into his flesh. Not agonized or fearful, just surprised. The pain had come later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead," wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: This exists purely because I was challenged to write something of this ilk. And I think I broke my soul in the process, just saying.
> 
> Warnings: Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, suicide, canon character death and mature content.

Awareness returned slowly, stubborn and bloodshot as his nails, blunt and chewed to the quick, dug into the dry Georgian dirt – fingertips bruised and shredded as saliva flooded across his tongue. He sighed, grounded - the loose dirt turning flaky and delicate as he threaded his fingers between the roots. The soil was malleable and moist against his skin as he tried to remember how he'd ended up flat on his back in the middle of nowhere in the first place.

He floated - peaceful. Trying to ignore that niggling tendril of doubt that was starting to work its way through him, streaming through him like bad blood, like gangrene from an open wound. Something was wrong, off.

But for the first time in his life, he didn't want to know.

The uneven forest floor speared into his spine, ripe with the scent of crushed pine and the acrid tang of old rain. It was a subtle smell, reminding him of new death and mouldering soil. But it was enough. Enough to bring him back - conscious.

His eyes fluttered open. The movement was unwilling and slow as he blinked, trying to clear his vision, as the forest canopy gradually took shape above him. He held up a hand, a filthy canvas of muted browns and reds as he squinted into the warm afternoon sun.

It was a beautiful day.

He'd been surprised when the teeth had sunk into his flesh. Not agonized or fearful, just surprised. The pain had come later. He'd been out of arrows, out of bullets, cornered, separated - there'd been too many. He hadn't been able to hold them off. His buck knife had been slick, _dripping_ – the air ripe with the stench of old death and rotting flesh as Rick's colt had blasted into early morning chill. Carol had screamed. And then-

His breathing stuttered, nearly choking on his own tongue as a splintering burst of agony lit up his side. Oh. He forced himself to still. Using the pain as an anchor, he tried to determine how bad it was. His fingers stilled when he found the edge, a mess of shredded skin and ripped up fabric. _Torn. Broken. Dead._

_Fuck. It was bad._

He grunted, unable summon up the energy to wince when the action sent pain whinging down his spine. The sensation burrowed bone deep - splintering as every muscle he'd forgotten he'd ever had throbbed. A fragment of a memory floated through his mind's eye – a half forgotten snatch from the news reports in the early days of the infection. His lashes fluttered as he remembered Jim's screams – dull cries of agony that had filtered through the window of the RV, impossible to block out, grating.

He closed his eyes. He'd told himself that would never be him.

Something moved in the brush on the opposite side of the clearing, tentative but bold. His hand instinctively went for his crossbow before he remembered. He was out of arrows, impotent. His heartbeat slowed.

A few minutes later a bob-tailed doe nosed her way out of the rushes - pretty and dappled, but still growing into her adult coat. Reality fractured, winding in and out of focus as the doe shifted and suddenly it was Sophia – her blond hair glinting as she tip-toed through the long grass.

He hissed, forcing himself to look away as her muted giggles echoed through the forest quiet. He counted to a hundred – willing himself to get a grip as his pulse thudded dully. _Christ his head hurt._ When he looked back the deer was showing him her tail – leaping nimbly through the brush until suddenly, he was alone again.

_Alone? He hadn't been alone for a long time. Not since-_


	2. Chapter 2

When everything had fallen apart, he'd been sitting cross-legged on top of his dryer. It had been a million fucking degrees out and he'd been wearing his oldest, rattiest pair of boxers, hips moving rhythmically in time with the vibrations as he waited for his jeans to cycle through.

He'd always hated laundry day.

There had been a movie on in the other room, some ancient pop-corn flick he'd already seen half a dozen times. But with the case of beer and fresh carton of cigarettes he'd picked up on his way home from work, spending his Friday night in a murky, beer-addled haze was actually starting looking remarkably attractive.

It wasn't like he had anything better to do anyway.

But then the movie had cut off – switching to static as he'd cocked his head, curious. And suddenly, it wasn't just on the national news anymore, the infection, it was on the county's dinky little news station, not fifty miles from his house.

The lights had flickered as he'd padded down the hall, bare feet sticking to the linoleum as he cursed Georgia, heat waves, and broken air conditioners all in one fell swoop. Already in a mood, he snagged a beer from the counter and took a long, unfettered drag. He made it to the living room just in time to read the captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

_…White House evacuated, border control counter measures fail, military pulling back from strategic points around Los Angeles, Boston, New Orleans and Manhattan. The President has imposed martial law to begin tonight at sun-down. Any citizen found outside after curfew will be subject to arrest without due process. Stay in your homes. Avoid contact with the infected. Avoid public gatherings. If possible stay off the roads, avoid subways and bus terminals east and south of the state line. Maintain law and order. Looters will be prosecuted. Government estimates that thirty percent of the populace has-…_

He remembered sitting down on the couch, hard. The turnaround had been sudden. Last he'd heard, the government – the military – whoever - had finally managed to get a handle on it. No one knew how it had started. At first no one had even paid any attention to it. But then it was real, impossible, yet still plastered across the front page. It was gruesome and in your face, fodder for the media, comedians, politicians, religious types – it didn't matter. It felt like an ill-timed joke, despite the news reports – the footage. Something late night talk show hosts made off-color jokes about, pretending that the footage reeling across the TV from dawn till dusk was nothing more than an elaborate hoax – a case of Swine flu that had been blown completely out of proportion. Only it wasn't. And by the time the country realized it, the virus, the infection, had spread across the nation, then the world – raging across state-lines like wildfire, so fast, so devastating, that it'd eventually earned the name.

And it was there, in his house, separated from everyone and everything by close to sixty acres of bone-dry farmland, that he watched as his state, his hometown, tore themselves apart.

And weirdly enough, that had been the last time he'd truly been alone. Ironic.

He swallowed and tasted bile, coming back to himself as a light breeze raked through the canopy overhead – a mess of crowded evergreens and patient maples. The edges of his vision blurred, breaths slurred, thick with phlegm as he forced himself to breathe normally.

His sheath was empty. _Where was his god damned knife?_

His stomach roiled, forehead beaded with sweat, like he was five seconds away from spewing his guts. His shook it off. He had more important things to worry about. He felt the ground around him, one hand inching across the sod, blind, tripping over his empty quiver, and then the torn flaps of his vest as he tried to find it. Part of him wondered why he even bothered as his sticky fingers came back empty.

But he knew why. He wasn't going to turn. He wasn't going to get back up and-

His side screamed. He didn't know how much time he had left, how long it had been since he'd been bitten. And the others – where were the others? Heat fanned off his skin like a furnace – limbs jumbled, unable to get comfortable as he squirmed into the undergrowth, trying to dig himself into the dirt, to cover himself and escape from-

He rolled onto his uninjured side just in time to avoid puking all over himself. His hair was damp and stringy at his temples as he retched – heaving again and again until he came up empty. Until tears were streaming unhindered down his cheeks – body electric – dying as he spat up a mouthful of red and god only knows what else.

The next thing he was aware of was being on his back again, one hand on his chest as he squinted up into the sky and tried to remember how to breathe.

He'd never felt pain like this before, and he was no stranger to the sensation. It was ironic in a way, being brought down by so small a thing. Something you couldn't even see. Something you couldn't fight. It wasn't right. It wasn't-

But then again, when had the world ever played fair?


	3. Chapter 3

He'd told himself that he wouldn't do this. That he wouldn't waste time on regrets when the clock ran out. But now – now that he had nothing better to do, he found he could think of little else. He couldn't help it.

He thought about Carl and Judith – little ass kicker – he thought about how Rick still couldn't hold her like he figured a father oughta. How he still looked off into the distance when he thought they weren't looking, held captive by something no one else could see.

He thought about a hundred thousand things he should've done – should have said but hadn't. He'd known better, but somehow he'd let them slip. And Carol, _christ._ He should have told her when he'd had the chance – when _they'd_ had the chance.

Because they'd had it – that spark – that stupid, niggling thing that was absolutely incomprehensible and yet made all the sense in the world. But now she was gone, or he was. He wasn't sure which anymore. Anger seared across his vision, cloying and red. He'd almost let himself believe it… that he could have this, her, that he could just settle down and-

He shook his head. Happy endings were just lies people told themselves when the lights went out. He should have known better. He should have known it would end this way. Nothing in life was that kind.

His lips curled. _Christ, he was pathetic._

He shivered, ignoring the warmth of high noon, ignoring the fever. His mind knocked for a loop at the conflicting sensations as everything around him ceased to make any kind of sense. He felt fragile. His bones were heavy, yet brittle. Jesus, he was cold. He hiked his hips awkwardly as he tried to unknot the sweater tied around his waist.

But his fingers refused to cooperate, trembling and seizing until he fell back, unable to repress the muffled cry that tore through him as his side burned. Fuck. His fingers pressed against the wound on reflex, but it was like trying to patch a dam with tablespoon of silly putty. _Fuckin' useless._

She had to be alright – Carol and the others, they had to be alright.

He tried holding onto the present, to take in his surroundings and listen for the others, for walkers. But reality was illusive – slippery and subjective. He was falling, drowning, coughing and-shit!

_Get a grip Dixon._

The sun glowed red behind his tightly closed lids, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he held onto consciousness by the coat-tails. He was out of time. He could feel it. He swallowed, gagging, swearing he could practically taste it as the sickness leeched through him, coating him from the inside out – oily and vapid as he struggled to breathe.

His lashes fluttered, tired. He hadn't slept in days. Not since the prison had been overrun. Not since the Governor had-

The world tilted on its axis and suddenly he remembered.

There were voices in the distance. Low hums of sound that could have been people - could have even been his name. But he didn't look. He kept his eyes on the forest canopy. Angrier with himself more than anything when he realized how desperately he wanted to call out to them. When he realized how much he didn't want to be alone.

He let his eyes close. _Christ, he was selfish._

Maybe it would be better if they didn't see him. If they didn't know. Wouldn't that be better? Kinder? Wouldn't it be better if they could just move on, live, oblivious to the fact that even if they'd found him, they wouldn't have been able to save him? Wouldn't that be-

A harsh yell rose up, meters away and disbelieving. He flinched.

They'd found him.


	4. Chapter 4

To anyone else the uneven stampede may have sounded like walkers. But he knew better. He would have recognized them anywhere. The corners of his lips turned upwards as he recognized the fleet sound of Rick running, Michonne not far behind, her steps graceful and lithe - Glenn and Maggie hot on their heels. He didn't have to look. He didn't have to see to know.

Family doesn't stop at blood.

He felt paralyzed, gratitude and self-loathing rolling off him in waves as he turned his head, watching them make their way across the clearing. Beth, Carl and Hershel were limping in the rear – unsteady as the old man struggled across the uneven ground with his crutches. They all looked like beaten shit.

_Christ, how long had they been out here? Out in the open?_

"Daryl! Daryl are you-"

He could tell the precise moment they realized it, all but tasting it in the air as his lungs rebelled. He coughed up black, wheezing, as if even that small burst of elation – that overwhelming roar of gratitude that had resulted when he realized they were all there, _safe_ – was too much for him.

"Oh god…No, Daryl-"

There were fingers gentling across his skin – light, but business-like. And suddenly he could smell her, his girl. She was here, she'd made it. And when he said her name, the word coming out more like a whisper than anything else, he told himself that the tears rolling down from the corners of his eyes could easily be mistaken for sweat.

A half a dozen faces swam above him – stifling – familiar. His senses felt numb, dulled, his vision greying out, but he grinned anyway.

"It worked," he sighed, settling back into the ground as his side burned – relief making him light.

"Yeah, it worked," Rick replied, voice hoarse and broken as he shoved a jacket, folded up and warm underneath his head. Fussing. "You should have let me-"

He cut him off. "There was no time and you know it. You needed bait. That was the only way it was going to work. Wasn't like we had much of a choice, anyway," he snorted, voice heady but tightly restrained as flashes of memory reeled out in his mind's eye.

He remembered a three story house and a stocked root cellar. Carl had been laughing – feeding Judith with a plastic spoon as Michonne and Carol had emerged from the cellar in a whirlwind of cob-webs and excited smiles - victorious, with an armful of dusty jars each.

He remembered the smell of canned peaches, licking syrup from between his fingers as Maggie laughed, the fire crackling in the hearth behind them as Carol pulled a Jesus and somehow managed to make the thin soup stretch between them. He remembered night falling and Carol cat-napping against his shoulder, her short hair tickling across his skin as his arm had come around behind her. He remembered telling himself he was more comfortable like that in the first place, pretending not to notice when she made a soft sound, pleasant and deep as one of her hands finally tangled together with his – all long fingers and prudent delicacy.

He remembered wondering if she was really asleep after all.

But then everything had stopped. Well, not exactly. It was hard to describe. Because suddenly walkers were coming in through the windows, Glenn and Maggie had skidded around the corner to the living room just in time to watch everything come crashing down around them. They'd been on watch, something had happened. He'd never found out what.

He remembered breathing, shallow and panicked, struggling to pick out the others from the walkers spilling in through the shattered glass door, the dining room, the kitchen window. They were trapped, backed into a corner. Hershel had been struggling with his crutches, the girls screaming, Rick fierce in the low light – colt blaring out into the summer smog as they'd fled deeper into the house. Carol had-

He retched.

Someone held out a canteen, half-full, with water sloshing down the sides, cool against his fingers as he grasped it. His hand trembled, weak, nearly dropping it before Rick's hands curled around his, warm and gritty as the man coaxed his fingers free.

"Let me…"

Shame and embarrassment filtered across his expression when he realized he was so weak that he couldn't even hold himself up on his elbows. There was a pause, noticeable and hushed until someone, maybe Glenn, propped him up, the water warm and mineral-rich against his tongue as he drank gratefully.

"Maybe we can-" someone began, high and hopeful, Beth maybe, before Hershel shushed her, taking her into his arms and muffling her sobs in his suit jacket as the others shifted around him - _restless._

There was only one thing left they _could_ do.


	5. Chapter 5

His bloody hands fisted through the long grass, opening and closing almost rhythmically as a wave of tension curled up his spine. Every muscle in his body was knotted – straining. He sunk his hands into the undergrowth, grit scoring across his skin until his fingers ached, tethering himself - as if through sheer will alone he could somehow cheat death and stay.

They were running out of time. _He was running out of time._

Someone reached over, pulling up the side of his shirt. He hissed in a breath, teeth clenching, as a wet cloth, dripping and icy, gentled across his skin, making finger tracks through the partially congealed blood and grit as someone – probably Maggie, made to clean it. He shook his head.

"Leave it," he grunted, "red's supposed to be my best color." The words were stilted and inappropriate. Hindsight. It was supposed to be joke but no one laughed. He didn't blame them.

He tried to turn over, side aching, trying to curl into himself – protective – but found he couldn't. His body was shutting down, weak. His lungs felt sickly and unsteady as he coughed, struggling to keep up. Darkness rolled across his vision, he blinked, but the dull sheen remained. He shuddered. Where the fuck was his knife?

The baby was crying.

He looked up, squinting through the glare, and was struck by the irony of the moment. He took them in, standing around him, above him, strong and whole. He almost choked with pride. They'd made it. They'd survived. But it wasn't just that, it was everything. They'd come so far from the jumpy city-slickers he'd gotten stuck with after Atlanta - they hadn't been able to tell their ass from a tea kettle back then, and yet, here they were, strong.

The words got stuck in his throat. He wanted to tell them, but he had no idea how to say it. He wanted to tell them that they were both the worst and the best thing that had ever happened to him. That they had been worth it and that he-

_They'd be fine._

His lashes fluttered, confused. His vision blurred and suddenly there were more faces ringing out behind the others, wavering, like a ray of sunlight filtering through a cloud of mist. He made a sound in his throat, low and wounded when he recognized them.

Fuck, he was delirious.

He blinked, but they didn't go away. Dale, Andrea, Lori, Amy, Shane, Jim, Jacqui, T-dog, Sophia…they were all there. Distant, but undeniably present. He closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself not to react when he opened his eyes and they were still there, waiting.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Merle didn't show.

He blinked and realized he was losing time, he had to be. Because suddenly, Hershel was there, his hand on his arm, curling around his shoulder and he said something – a platitude, he couldn't quite make it out. He was going to ask, but then Beth had replaced him, her long blond hair fuzzed around her face in an uneven halo as she pressed a kiss across his filthy cheek.

He swallowed hard, tasting bile. He'd never been good at goodbyes.

The others were making sounds. Sympathetic. Sobbing. Their faces ruined and red. He tried to turn away. This wasn't what he wanted, how he wanted to remember them. But before he could protest, Carl was there, loose limbed and close. His hat was tilted down, hiding his eyes. It was still too big. He bit down on a smile, thumbing it up over the kid's forehead on reflex - frowning when he realized that the action had taken more out of him than it should have.

"I found your crossbow," the boy offered, shrugging it off his shoulder, awkwardly fighting the straps as he put it down beside them.

He let a crooked finger trail down the side, taking in the familiar nicks and dents, inhaling the smell of the oil he'd rubbed onto the strings just the other day, fresh and pungent.

"Keep it," he grunted. "Teach little ass kicker when she's old enough," he finished, letting his hand rest on the kid's sleeve for a fraction of a second before he caught Michonne's eye over top his head. Something in him loosened when she nodded – her face stony but kind as relief trickled through him.

_She'd keep them safe._

It wasn't until he winced, trying to find a more comfortable position that he heard Rick shift just off to his right. His calloused pads brushing across the clip of his holster, the action both unconscious and reassuring as the older man made to speak.

"Daryl, do you want us to-"


	6. Chapter 6

Rick hesitated, pausing before the fall. But he just closed his eyes. He knew what the man wanted, what he couldn't say. But still he had to ask. Just like he had for Jim, for Dale, for Andrea…

He would have taken care of it himself, saved them all the trouble, if he hadn't been unarmed. But his tongue twisted before he could say the words out loud. He didn't think he could meet Carol's eyes otherwise.

One of Judith's pudgy little arms rose into view – wind-milling and angry. Tired…no, hungry – probably both. He didn't blame her. He tickled one of her feet, pulling a surprised little hiccup out of her as she leaned backwards, making grabby-hands at him and burbling happily until he caved and let her grab his finger. She squealed and he struggled around a smile.

"Daryl-" Rick tried, his voice harsh, but agonized in a way that only served to grind his nerves. It was well meant, but in reality, it only served to remind him of everything he'd already lost.

He wanted to just reach up and demand the man's gun. But he didn't. He couldn't. Not with the others-

He'd read somewhere that it is only when a man is facing death that he is truly free. He'd always wondered if that were true. But now he called bullshit. Death was just another cage, or least the moments leading up to it were anyway. He was too busy worryin' about the others to give two shits about himself - about what he wanted.

It was Carol that saved him, her voice soft and quiet from somewhere over his left shoulder. All shifting softness and supple curves as she leaned over him, resting her hand on Rick's knee as she caught the man's eye. "Can you give us a moment?"

He missed the man's response, but suddenly everyone was moving. People were dipping down, whispering final goodbyes. He just nodded, lost. His stomach churned, side aching, the pain suddenly growing – spreading deep in his gut until the faces and names melded together. Reality and conscious thought were shunted to the side as his body and brain waged war just underneath his skin.

His chin dipped into his chest. _Tired._

But he was startled out of himself a moment later when he realized that Glenn's hand was on his shoulder. He blinked; he had no idea how long it had been there, only that it was there, squeezing gently. He blinked again and suddenly he had double vision, his mind taking him back to that moment in Atlanta when the two of them ducked around that trash can, bickering in the alleyway - leaving him speechless as the memory played out in real time. Only it didn't stop. And suddenly he was back on that rooftop, face twisting as he yelled his brother's name.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _He needed it to stop, he couldn't-_

But he caught the kid's eye regardless - nodding. He didn't know how to feel about it when something in the man's eyes just broke in response. The muscles in his face rippled, like he was biting down on the inside of his cheek as he forced himself to rise, letting Maggie pull him away as Rick cleared his throat somewhere behind them, awkward and strained.

"Give them some space guys," Rick finally rasped, voice hitching, already sounding worrisomely distant. He wasn't sure why, but he caught the man by the arm before he pulled away.

Something passed between them in that moment, something wordless but infinite. It was something that didn't need words, something that was more than words. Something that said "thank you", "brother", "good luck", and "I'll be see'in you," all at the same time. He nearly choked on it. But he meant it. Every god damned second of it.

"Keep them safe. Make it-make it count," he murmured.

Rick nodded, looking as though he was going to say something more before he took his hand, dirt-streaked and mottled, and brought it into his own, into something that was less of a handshake and more of an embrace as he hesitated, collecting himself before he spoke.

"I will. You know I will."

And then he was gone, his long legs unsteady as he staggered more than walked. Spine stiff backed and defeated as his footsteps faded, moving away until it was just him and Carol.

He breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

For a long time they didn't speak. She was crying. He was numb, off-kilter. For a long moment, he just stared, memorizing the lines of her face and the freckled span of her skin. There were salt tracks trickling down her cheeks, falling across his skin like rain as he tried to figure out what to say. It seemed cruel, cruel to be struggling for words now that he finally had her here - _alone._

He reached up, thumbing a smudge of blood from her cheek, nearly losing it completely when she captured it. She rubbed her face into the curve of his palm, mouthing the skin as his breathing went ragged - his control fraying.

"You made it," he rasped, his voice cracking, quietly horrified to realize that the brave face he'd slapped on when Rick'd left was failing.

There was something broken in her eyes, something that existed despite her smile, something he couldn't make sense of. It was something he probably should have been paying attention to, but there was no time. Not when her fingers were rubbing circles into his skin, infusing him with warmth as he counted out the hitches in her breathing.

_His girl._

"Yeah, - yeah I made it," she whispered, trying her best to grin through her tears as she knelt above him, her short hair spiked with blood and sweat. But he swore she'd never looked so beautiful.

His smile, shot-through with relief and something else, something he wasn't comfortable unpacking any more than he had to, was more of a grimace than anything else, but he figured it still counted.


	7. Chapter 7

"You sure you want to do this?" He asked, sickly and just a little bit desperate as the rest of the world greyed out, fading. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, oily and wrong, as he ran it across his teeth, tasting fresh blood and grit.

Her Glock was loose in her holster, the snaps ripped clean off – a fresh break. He couldn't help but stare. It didn't seem right that she would be the one to do it. It felt wrong, _cruel._ Like fate was mocking her somehow. He didn't like it.

But she had the good sense to ignore him, shaking her head - _priorities._ She'd always known just what to say, what would soothe or calm, incite or encourage, even when she didn't feel it herself. It was probably a woman thing – or maybe he was more far gone than he thought, either way he doubted anything could have prepared him for finally hearing it out loud.

"I love you," she whispered, gentle but devastating as his vision tunneled. He breathed, ragged and broken as his chest fluttered in time. His fingers tightened around hers on reflex, _buying time._

Her smile was tremulous, all red-bitten lips and muted desperation as she waited. He struggled between the truth and what would make it easier. Christ. If he were a better man, he'd look her in the face and lie. He'd tell her that he didn't love her, that he never had, that she was his mother, his sister, his best friend. He'd lie so she could move on; _live,_ live without his ghost dogging her steps. But he wasn't that man. He was a greedy, possessive bastard that was just weak enough to make her life hell.

"I know…" He managed, a fit of coughs racking his frame, jarring his injured side until he was almost clawing at it, pressing down on the torn flesh with his free hand, instinctively trying to dull the pain.

She made a wounded noise in the back of her throat, unscrewing her canteen as his coughs lessened. But he waved her away. _He had to get this out. He had to tell her-_

"I'm sorry…" He murmured, lucidity streaming through him like water through a sieve, struggling to hold onto the words he figured he'd never find it in him to say.

"Why? Why would you be sorry?" She prompted. He wanted to believe there was eagerness behind her words. He wanted to believe that, in spite of everything, she'd wanted this as much as he did - _them, together._ But now, looking up at her, he doubted anyone could match it. What he felt was too raw, too powerful, too unique for him to believe that anyone could feel the same way in return – for _him, especially for him._

Or maybe Merle has been right after all; maybe he'd always been a bit touched in the head.

"Cause I lo-"

He stuttered, the words grinding to a halt like a thousand year old engine - faulty, run-down, failing. _Christ, he was pathetic. He couldn't even tell her that he-_

"You don't have to say it." She assured, her fingers soft as she brushed blood-stiffened bangs off his forehead. Her expression was sad and kind all at once as she rubbed circles into his aching temples. _Soothing._

The terrible thing was that he knew she was sincere. That even now, at the end of things, she'd let him get away with it, with not saying it if he wanted too. It was just who she was. They were both damaged goods, but she'd always been better – more open to change. Whereas he'd always stalled, stuttering on the precipice, seconds before the fall.

Just like now.

"Don't I?" he replied, irritated now. "I only get to say it once," he growled, wincing when the words came out sounding angry - cruel and bitter.

His pulse grew sluggish, thickening.

But suddenly he laughed, the world tilting on its axis as he tipped back and took in the wispy blue of high Georgian summer. Getting distracted by the memory as her expression turned uncomprehending, missing the irony he could see as plain as fuckin' day.

"I told Merle that he'd left. Before he went off and faced off the governor. I told him that he'd always been the one that had left. In Atlanta, when we were kids," he chuckled, dark and unsteady. Refusing to meet her eyes when she tried to shush him, her hands curling around his shoulders as she came around behind him, propping him up until his head was cradled in her lap - _protective._

"Now I'm the one that's leavin', ain't that a bitch," he nearly choked, his heart thudding in his ears as he forced himself to finish. It seemed important somehow, to finish what he'd started.

The wind shifted, and the sound of muffled sobbing rose up in the distance. _Fuck._

The silence went stale, crumbling into dust on his tongue as he swallowed thickly.

"You know though-don'tcha?" He finally hummed, all country brogue and lisping vowels. The words slurred together as he tried to bring her into focus. He wanted to see her, he wanted to see her face when he-

"You know…you know that I-I love you too…"

The words came out rushed and breathless, more like a whimper or a mewl than anything else. But to him, to _her,_ it was perfect. It had be, it was all they had left. It was the only thing he had left to give her.

He felt the pressure of her lips against his as the world faded away. _A kiss._ He returned it clumsily, ravenous and weak all at the same time as he tried to make it last. She was unsteady when she finally pulled away, muscles trembling just underneath the skin as she brought the gun out of her holster.

For the first time in his life, the forest went silent.

Distantly he heard the cock, the weight of her finger against the trigger. And in spite of himself he opened his eyes. He let them trail up her skin, it was better than watching her fall apart, wiping the tears that had splattered across his cheek, smearing the blood spatter as his last breath rasped out into the hush.

Her pulse was strange underneath his head, shallow, slow – _too slow._ Or maybe that was him. He couldn't tell anymore. _He was drowning, alive and dead at the same time._

Her sleeve caught on the knob of her wrist as the gun lowered, delicate and tapering as the cold steel pressed against his temple.

He'd always had a thing for women's wrists. He'd never really been sure why, there was something about the delicacy of the bones and the slimness of the joints that had always fascinated him. It was old fashioned, he knew that much, like the flash of an ankle or the glimpse of a throat, ivory and pale in the moonlight. He'd told Merle the same when he'd asked, peeking over his shoulder as his brother had flipped through the pages of a stolen Hustler.

He'd said it honestly, knowing it was the wrong answer; the answer Merle _wasn't_ looking for. But he did it anyway, innocently. Merle had laughed so hard he'd woken up their mama out of a dead sleep, still smelling of wine and stale cigarettes as she'd padded out of the bedroom to see what all the fuss was about.

It wasn't until he turned his head that he saw it, vision hazing out into static as the edge of her sleeve rippled upwards. There was a small set of teeth marks sunk deep into her forearm, crusted around the edges and still pearling with red. The bite was small, _too small,_ with a missing front tooth and a set of nail marks that had bruised, angry and dark across her freckle-flecked skin.

She shuddered underneath him. Her mouth was moving, making sounds that _could_ have been his name as a ringing, high pitched and terrible, echoed in his ears.

Awareness crashed down the same second her finger tightened around the trigger. He never heard the shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight. Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." ― Dylan Thomas, (from Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N #2: This is my first attempt at such a genre, so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I am thinking there will be one more chapter – perhaps two. The next chapter should be up soon!


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